Hey there! It’s your top-dog detective, Bishop. Just cracked the case of Sir Reginald’s MIA bone—turned out to be a classic case of tart-led temptation. Managed to sniff out the culprit and restored peace (and the bone) to Pawsburg. Keeping tails wagging and baddies at bay. 😎🐾 #SherlockBones

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On a particularly intriguing morning, the kind that hinted at hidden secrets in the fragrant breeze of Pawsburg, I, Bishop, a dandy of a Boston Terrier, found myself on a peculiar case. You see, Pawsburg isn’t just any old town—it’s a haven, a labyrinth of tales waiting to be unraveled by someone with a keen nose and sharper wit. Imagine Sherlock with four legs and a penchant for savory chicken treats—that’s me.

As I trotted along Akita Alley, my ears perked under the weight of the morning’s mission. A baffling disappearance had struck the calm of our doggy domain: Sir Reginald’s prized bone, a mammoth thing, a true marvel of the butchery arts, had vanished. Reginald’s howl of despair had roused the sun itself, I daresay.

I breezed by The Barking Boutique, barely giving a nod to the latest collection of canine couture that tempted lesser-minded dogs. There amidst the bustle of market day, I caught the faintest scent trail—a cocktail of soil, marrow, and believe it or not, a hint of lemon. A shudder ran through me. Lemon—the villain of my palate.

“Interesting,” I muttered to myself, the gears of deduction clicking like clockwork. “Our culprit abhors lemon as I do.” The scent led me with precision to Puppy Patisserie, where the tarts boasted a citrus kiss, the mere thought set my teeth on edge.

“The lemon tart—has anyone interesting purchased it recently?” I inquired of the chef, a portly Poodle with a temper as whipped as his cream.

“Why yes, Bishop. That wiry Fox Terrier, Lou, he bought a dozen just this morning. Said it was for his owner’s luncheon,” the chef replied, his brow furrowing under his checkered hat. Suspicious indeed. Everyone knew his owner preferred Spaniel Spaghetti.

I found Lou circling Hound’s Hotdogs, dribbling a trail of tart crumbs. “Terribly tart these tarts, ey Lou?” I chirped, with my usual disarming charm.

His whiskers twitched, eyes darting. “What of it, Bishop?”

“Oh, nothing, just curious about Reginald’s bone, really. You haven’t seen it by chance?” I eyed the crumbs, all but accusing.

His stammer betrayed him and he bolted with a yelp, like a thief chased by justice’s shadow. I gave chase, dashing past The Pawfect Training Center, where hounds perfected their sit-and-stays. I was no pup to be trifled with—I lived for these moments when the leash of civility slipped.

Turning into Eskimo Estuary, I could see Lou, headed for a hidey-hole beneath the willows. And there, under the drooping greenery, the mammoth bone gleamed just as Reginald described. A treasure reclaimed, I thought with satisfaction.

“You’re a slippery one,” I teased as I cornered him.

“Bishop, I… I just wanted a taste, a nibble! Reginald, he never shares,” Lou whimpered, tail between his legs.

“Of course, he doesn’t, he’s a barbarian with his food. But, worry not, your secret’s safe with me. Let’s return the bone, and I’ll forget the whole incident,” I proposed, feeling magnanimous. “And those tarts—dispose of them, for goodness’ sake. They’re a crime against cuisine.”

We returned the bone to a grateful Reginald, who was none the wiser, his wag nearly knocking over The Pawsome Pet Pharmacy’s sign.

Lou nodded, a newfound respect in his eyes. “Thank you, Bishop. You’re no ordinary hound.”

I winked. “Ordinary is for cats.”

And with the case closed, life in Pawsburg resumed its harmonious hum. The trees whispered, dogs romped, and I, Bishop, relished another mystery neatly put to bed with a sense of whimsy only Sedaris could appreciate, should he have the fortune to be reincarnated as a dog.

The End.